


Back to the Beyond

by NightChanghes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Castiel just had a breakup and just kinda keeps driving until one day he stops, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kansas, M/M, Sad Castiel, Sad Dean, Strangers to Lovers, eventual smut mb i havent decided, middle of nowhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 17:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightChanghes/pseuds/NightChanghes
Summary: It's been 11 hours since Castiel last took a break on his road trip to nowhere. When he stops to get gas, he realizes he made it, literally. There's nothing here, just a gas station, a parking lot, and a bar on the other side. Oh, and those damn green eyes.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 13





	Back to the Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> if there are typos or edits please let me know im so tired

11 hours. It’s been 11 hours since Castiel last stopped. 11 hours since he let up on the gas pedal. 11 hours since he allowed himself time to rest. 

He’d began driving much before that. A few days, he thinks, but it’s a blur. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the problem that drove him from his Washington State home, but, perhaps, after noticing the distance has done nothing to relieve him of the anxiety churning low in his stomach, Jophiel was right. Maybe he _ is _ the problem. And one thing Castiel knows better than anyone is that you cannot run from yourself. 

So he stops, fills up with gas at a station in Middle-of-Nowhere, Kansas, parks in the 24 hour lot, and walks to the only other building at the exit. 

It’s a bar, a flickering sign above the worn down roadhouse reading “Back to the Beyond.” 

Cas quirks his head at the sign, he’s never seen a bar with such a long name, especially one so far from any other civilization, but he allows himself to look past that in search of a good pint of beer. 

He enters the bar, easily pushing through the front door without even needing to turn the rusty handle. His hair is mussed up from the hours of driving, his white shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, his favourite trench coat having been abandoned in his back seat after enduring the beating afternoon sun of Colorado. 

When he enters the bar, _ Here I Go Again _by Whitesnake spinning on the jukebox, the smell of beer and cigarettes infiltrates his system first. He looks around, observing the neon signs and homey atmosphere through the smoke. The place looks nicer inside than out, he notes.

There’s a table of bikers, all leather-clad and smiles, rowdy only in relation to the rest of the bar’s patrons, lazily sipping their respective drinks at separate tables around the room. There’s one man at the bar, his legs wrapping around the back of the stool he’s sitting on top of, hooking his feet under the metal hoop at the bottom. Castiel resolutely ignores this man, not wanting to speak to anyone, but deciding immediately that he’ll stake out his own solitary claim with a stool at the bar. 

He walks quietly up to the polished wood of the bar, and places his forearm on the cool of it, signaling with a weak lift of his hand that he requires service. The bartender notices his movement and is over without a second thought. 

“What can I get ya?” she says, smiling softly and taking in the state Castiel’s in. 

Castiel orders a beer, whatever on tap is best, and she brings him a pint in a glass that’s sweating from the stuffy Kansas heat that’s trapped inside the building with them. She also slides him a double of some sort of deep, oak coloured whiskey and winks with an “On me.” 

He smiles back at her, she already knows him too well, but he doesn’t mind. It’s one thing to let a stranger in, it’s basic human connection with no fear of rejection-- it’s another thing entirely to trust someone fully, only to have them deny you. 

Castiel pushes the thoughts of Jophiel and trust and _ running away _out of his mind with a swig of beer. Tries to at least. He takes another sip, and another, and soon he’s downed half a pint of beer and is nowhere closer to escaping his thoughts. 

He tilts his head to look at the glass of whiskey that’s resting by his left hand and decides, ‘Fuck it, I earned this.’ as he shoots it all back, the burn of it taking his mind elsewhere. He doesn’t think he should like the taste, or the burn, or the way it somehow reminds him of honey, but he savors it, doesn’t take a sip of beer until the sharp taste of whiskey dissipates, and orders another one with a raise of his empty glass and a tap on the rim of it with his index finger. 

He’s mid sip of beer, awaiting the arrival of his next shots of whiskey, when he feels the all too familiar feeling of someone’s eyes on him. It’s that inexplicable ‘raising of the hackles’ sort of feel that never fails to put him on edge. He slowly lowers his pint, placing it back where it’s left a ring of condensation on the bar top and slowly looks to his right. 

And there it is. 

_ Green. _

Green so intense he would have dropped his glass had he looked any earlier. The eyes that are on him are glassy and sad and inviting and Castiel feels the walls he’s spent his entire life building crumble like all of it was for nothing. He doesn’t dare drop his eyes from where they're stuck with the stranger’s, if he does, he thinks he might explode with the overstimulation that much beauty can cause. 

He’s broken out of the gaze by the sound of glass against wood and his glass, now full, being placed back in front of him. The bartender gives him a sad sort of smile and then goes back to cleaning behind the counter. 

When she turns around to grab gin off the shelf to make a drink for another patron, Castiel allows himself to turn his gaze back to those green eyes. 

Except this time, he’s not met with their stare, but the full beauty of the man sitting just a few seats away from him. His head is hanging low as his fingers turn an empty shot glass around on the table. He looks mesmerized by the way the neon lights catch and dance through the glass. But god, Castiel’s heart may explode. The man’s side profile is beautiful. His nose is perfectly proportioned with his face, a slight bump giving it character, and it’s spattered with freckles, freckles that travel across the entirety of his face, across sharp cheekbones and back to the edge of soft brown hair like constellations. His lips are plump and jut out in an almost pout, while his chin and jawline are defined, yet soft at his head’s current angle. Castiel realizes he’s staring too late, those eyes come back to meet his and the eyes light up this time, accompanied by a soft smirk on those beautiful lips. 

The man tilts his head in the direction of Castiel’s drinks and he grumbles out a “Bad day?” 

It’s slurred, and a little broken, but God his voice is beautiful. It’s deep, not as deep as his own, but it’s deep like a string quartet hitting the perfect harmony. It reverberates in Castiel’s bones. He shivers. 

He lets himself reach for his double of whiskey and smiles, tight lipped, “You could say that.” 

He lets his eyes reach the stranger’s again before he tips his head back and takes in the second round of entirely-too-much-whiskey-at-once. He blinks through the burn back towards the stranger, whose lips have fallen open and whose fingers are now gripping his empty shot glass tight. Castiel grins a bit more genuinely and he lets the warmth of whiskey guide him to the seat right next to the stranger. For the first time since Castiel arrived, the stranger unhooks his feet from where they’ve been settled comfortably, and brings them in front of him, helping him to sit up a bit straighter. 

The man smells of pine deodorant and leather, not present anywhere on his outfit, and of the very same whiskey Castiel has now downed four shots of. He lets his left arm rest on the table as he reaches out his right to shake hands with the man. 

“Castiel.” He rumbles out, matter-of-factly. 

The man eyes his hand, almost suspiciously, before placing his hand in Castiel’s and smiling shyly. 

“Dean.” 

Their hands are still intertwined as a silence falls around them. Castiel is lost in the warmth of Dean’s hand. The feeling of the calloused palm of this beautiful stranger, _ Dean, _against his own, softer one is so much better than the whiskey, and that was damn good. 

When he finally manages to pull himself together and let go of Dean’s hand, he notices those green eyes flicker and look off nervously to side-eye his empty glass. Castiel smiles to himself and waves down the bartender, ordering two more shots, this time separated into their respective shot glasses and distributed to him and his new muse. 

He knocks on the table next to where Dean’s gaze has fallen off to and Dean’s eyes dart back up. Castiel grins and pushes a new, full shot glass to Dean. 

“To bad days.” He chuckles. 

Dean sucks in a breath and picks up his glass, now letting himself smile slightly and repeat after Castiel. 

“To bad fucking days.” 

  
  
  
  



End file.
